Chapter 8 - The War of Papers and Steel
For three days, the stone estate in New Hampshire became our war room.
While Marcus and a select squad of loyal operatives secured our positions in Boston, Jack and I sat at a long wooden table in front of the fire, surrounded by laptops, secure phones, and stacks of financial documents.
We didn't launch an armed assault on Dominic Moretti’s territory. Instead, we executed a quiet, brutal financial execution.
"Moretti’s primary revenue stream is tied to three commercial shipping docks in Providence," I explained, tapping a graph on my laptop screen showing real-time trade flows. "If we file an emergency injunction with the Federal Maritime Commission based on safety violations, those docks close for forty-eight hours."
Jack smiled, leaning over my shoulder, his chin almost resting on my neck as he looked at the data. "And a forty-eight-hour closure forces his secondary investors to default on their high-interest private loans."
"Exactly," I said, turning my head to look at him. "By Friday afternoon, Moretti won't have enough cash left to pay his private security guards, let alone fund another sniper crew."
Jack looked at me with profound admiration. "You are more dangerous with a laptop than twenty men with automatic rifles, Emily Carter."
"I told you in the lobby," I smirked. "I planned to destroy the competition after lunch."
Jack chuckled, pulling me toward him and kissing me soundly on the cheek. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
By Friday at 3:00 PM, the trap snapped shut.
Dominic Moretti’s financial empire collapsed like a house of cards. His private lenders seized his properties, the federal government impounded his shipping fleet, and his own lieutenants refused to follow his orders once their payroll checks bounced.
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Deprived of his power, Moretti fled to a private airport outside Worcester, intending to board a light aircraft to South America.
He didn't make it to the runway.
